And the Darkness Will Bind Them
by Textures-of-Black
Summary: This darkfic focusses on the events of the sixth year at Hogwarts. Instead of the climax being at the end, it is at the beginning, and the rest of the story fills in the gaps. Curious? Then read onwards, if you think you have the nerve... muahahaha!
1. Ripped Apart

**DISCLAIMER:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.   
**Author notes:** Please read and, if you have the inclination, review!  My companion phoenix will gratefully accept any flames that I receive.  This is my original work and has been around for a while but I just thought I'd chuck it on the site and see what reaction I get.  Thanks to my mates; Danica, Kate, Sam, Tix and several others for their encouragement and inspiration. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Draco forced the silvered blade through the flesh and bone between Harry's shoulder blades and twisted it. Blood spurted from the gaping wound and pooled over the cold stone of the dungeon floor, flecks of splintered bone floating in the death-milk. He drove the knife home a final time and Harry slumped to his knees, the blood soaked ends of his raven-black hair flicking into his eyes. Not that it mattered; his empty eye sockets were locked in perpetual darkness.

Even as Harry felt the blood rise in his throat and gradually begin to drown him, he rasped, "Attack...a man...from behind. Just like you...Malfoy. Just like...a...a Sl...-"

Draco kicked him to the ground and stood over him, fists clenched and teeth gritted. "Say it Potter. It's the last thing you'll ever say."

Even though a bubble of warm scarlet fluid choked every syllable, Harry whispered, "Just like a Slytherin...coward. You're...weak. Cowards die...a thousand times...but a warrior...dies only...once."

Suddenly Harry jerked. His spine arched horribly and his eyes widened in sudden terror. Then his tortured body became still for the last time. Draco knelt in the blood that surrounded the lifeless body of his sworn enemy, and with a shaking, pale hand touched the flesh that would soon lose its life-warmth.

Then he began to laugh, a terrible, mocking laugh that ricocheted off the dungeon walls and filled his whole being. Draco Malfoy laughed at the fleeting image of Death. Then he choked and the maniacal laughter turned to hollow, grief-filled, bone-racking sobs.

*****

Harry slammed his fist into the stone wall of the Hogwarts dungeons, just outside the entrance of the Potions room.

"Bloody Slytherin bastards!" he grunted through his clenched jaw, as a burning pain throbbed through his grazed knuckles. He pressed his injured hand tightly against his chest as he stormed down the hallway.

Had he been in a more observant frame of mind, the expressions on the faces of all the students would have been almost amusing in their distinct diversity. The seventh years and his fellow sixth years regarded him with eyebrows raised in scepticism, the more obnoxious of them even dared to smirk at his outrage. The fourth and fifth years followed his outburst with mild to intense curiosity, and the third years downwards looked quite alarmed and did their utmost to move nearer the walls in order to escape the wrath of the infamous Harry Potter.

As Harry approached the staircase of the Gryffindor tower, he felt a delicate hand being placed on his shoulder.

"Harry..."

He violently shrugged it off and continued to stomp up the winding flight of stairs, hating the world more intensely with every step. He could hear the Fat Lady trilling, "Oh my, we are in a temper, aren't we dear?"

Some miniscule logical section of his brain told him not to retaliate because any comment he made would hardly be less that a threat. So Harry barked, "Norwegian Ridgeback", roughly assisted the Fat Lady's opening and slammed her portrait behind him (mainly to escape her indignant shouts of "How rude! You obviously weren't Sorted for your charm!")

He invaded the homey scarlet-and-gold common room, sank into one of the squashy red velvet armchairs and gazed into the enchanted flames, conjured by dutiful house elves earlier that morning. He channelled his rage into the fire, willing it to consume his enemies and reduce them to unidentifiable charred corpses.

*

Hermione stood in front of the portrait of the Fat lady, fidgeting nervously. She desperately wanted to be with Harry, talk to him, comfort him, feel him fall into her arms with love and trust the way he used to. But...

Hermione subconsciously ran a hand over her left eye, where only a faint blue mark betrayed the fact that a week ago, that eye had been blackened and swollen shut. _He's changed_, she told herself. _I guess we all did. Hagrid's...crossing _(she couldn't bring herself to say death, she never could bear the finality of the word) _affected Harry more deeply than the rest of us. _

_I mean, besides Sirius, Hagrid was as close as Harry ever got to having a Dad. Hmph, Sirius, _she thought (a little spitefully). _Sure, the bloke blames himself for what happened to Hagrid, but so does Harry. Sirius hiding from the world won't help hold Harry together. _And then it struck her as it had several times before. _That's my job._

But still she hesitated before finally giving the Fat Lady the password.

*

Harry barely noticed the light footsteps approaching his armchair. Hermione stopped, and sought for words that would alert Harry to her presence. She was spared by a grunted, "What do you want?"

She flicked her eyes to his face, but his gaze was still firmly fixed on the fireplace.

"Harry, what happened?"

"Nothing."

Hermione fought to control her frustration. "Harry, don't treat me like an idiot. I saw what you did after class, damn it, I almost felt it. Now, just talk to me. Please."

Harry stood up so fast that Hermione shrank back.

"You want me to tell you what happened? I thought you would have been able to figure it out for yourself, Granger the Wonder-Bitch. If you had ears you couldn't have missed Snape's wisecrack about, and I quote, 'Hagrid's unfortunate but perhaps not altogether unintentional demise'. Oh, the Slytherins enjoyed that, didn't they?"

Every Slytherin attending that Potions lesson had cracked up laughing at Snape's sarcastic remarks directed with extreme malice, every one of them knowing Harry's sensitivity over his failure to protect Hagrid from the Death Eater, Vincent Crabbe Senior. As he had a-thousand-and-one times before, Harry replayed the events in his mind. Or rather, the events replayed themselves without his tortured mind's consent.

Once again, he saw the battlefield strewn with the dead and the suffering, his ears filled with shouts of rage, explosions and screams of pain and fear. Harry stood back to back with Sirius, both fighting to hold their own against a rising tide of Death Eaters. At that moment, Hagrid's burly bulk towered over them all and, swinging a massive broadsword, managed to hack a path to Harry and Sirius.

Once they had some breathing space, Harry looked up to Hagrid, flashing a weary but grateful grin. But then in the corner of his eye, a black-robed, hooded wizard removed his wand from his robes and...

"No, Hagrid!" Harry roared.

Both Harry and Sirius hurled themselves at Hagrid, then a screamed "Avada Kedavra!" echoed in their ears. Harry felt his elbow shatter as he crashed to the ground, forced backward by a rush of green light. Winded, he lay gasping on the cold, barren earth. Then the sound of a sob momentarily shocked him. He'd never heard Sirius cry before...

With a scream like a wounded Centaur, Harry scrambled on his knees to where his friend lay.

"No Hagrid, you're not dead! Don't leave me, you can't! You can't..." he sobbed brokenly. Then he became aware of Sirius gripping him roughly.

"Slytherin bastard," said Sirius, his voice cracking. "Got him from behind. A coward's murder. He'll die a thousand times, Harry, but a warrior dies only once. Hagrid's a warrior, Harry."

Tears choked him then, and two dark heads were bowed over the body of the greatest warrior to die that day.

"Harry?"

Hermione saw Harry's shoulders seem to crumple and his silence scared her.

Harry shook himself slightly and turned away from her.

"Harry, what else happened in there today? I know it wasn't just Snape."

Harry was still for a moment, leaning on the back of the armchair, then he said quietly, "Hermione, you have no idea what it's like, seeing that scum Malfoy near you, thinking he's Merlin's gift to women. And what's worse is seeing you let him be close to you."

Hermione was startled. Draco had just been asking her how many stewed Hippogriff scales were required for the intricate Extroviteum Potion.

"Harry, it's not like that. You don't-"

"Don't what? Understand? I think I understand a lot better than you. You fancy that prick."

"What?! No-"

"Shut up, Hermione." Harry kept his back turned to her.

_My God, he's actually serious,_ Hermione thought with a sudden icy stab of fear.

"But..."

"I said, SHUT UP!" Harry whipped around and backhanded her across the jaw. Hermione collapsed to the floor, face down. Harry stood by her, frozen in horror. Then he swore and dropped to his knees.

"Oh God, Mione! Please, I'm sorry, oh God, I'm so sorry." He ran his hands over her silky hair and stroked her pale skin in sudden panic. "Mione, please say something!"

Harry gently grasped her by the shoulders and turned her body over. He realised with a shock how light she was. He heard a faint sob and he almost laughed with relief as he picked up her limp body and pressed her to his shoulder, wrapping his arms around her.

"I'm sorry Mione, I didn't mean to hurt you. It'll never happen again, I really mean it. I love you. I love you so much, you know that, don't you?" he choked as he tried to wipe her tears away.

"I know," she whispered.

They sat on the crimson rug for a long time.

*


	2. Troubled Memories

Ron Weasley hunched over his broomstick trying to force his mind to focus on his team's training. But apart from shouting such instructions as "Creevey, keep your eye on the bloody thing!" or "Dean, Quidditch is not football, use your hands!", the flame haired captain's heart wasn't in it. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, Ron stopped trying to block the flow of thoughts and simply let his mind wander.

_What the hell__ is going on with Harry? _He smiled a little bleakly as he remembered all the great laughs and adventures he had once shared with his best friend. Once, they had failed examinations together, received detentions from Snape together, played Quidditch together and until recently fought side by side in the ongoing war against the Dark Side.

_But__ that's all changed. Hagrid's gone and so has the Harry Potter I used to know._

In place of the thoughtful, honest and adventurous Boy Who Lived, a withdrawn shell of that boy now existed, one who distanced himself from all who cared in the struggle against his own inner demons. Once the star Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, now barely able to control his broom.

Ron's thoughts turned to Hermione. Smart, loyal, beautiful Hermione. _I used to be jealous of them. Why did Harry get everything, even the girl? I guess I just got over it in the end, they were so happy and so damn right for each other._

Ron's eyebrows knit in frustration. _But__ that's all screwed up too. Can't he see he's tearing her apart?_

He didn't know Hermione anymore. She was so timid and secretive. Ron knew that she tried to be the same old Mione and she managed to fool everyone...except him. Ron could see the fear in her deadened eyes, those eyes that were once the part of her he loved most, radiating confidence, intelligence and a passion for life. The tears he had been swallowing for so long all came flooding out then, a tide of misery, confusion and pain.

Ron had no idea how long he sat there, drifting, the cold oak handle of his Firebolt Series II in sharp contrast with the warm tears spilling down his cheeks. The memory of how he obtained his broomstick caused his internal ocean to overflow once more. It had been at Christmas, the five months since that day seemed like a lifetime to Ron.

He had, only two weeks prior to Christmas, discovered that he had been chosen as the Gryffindor Quidditch team's new captain. He and Harry had spent many bitingly cold afternoons braving the weather and taking turns on Harry's Firebolt, each practising their relative Seeker and Chaser skills.

On Christmas morning, Harry had received a long, suspicious-looking package at the end of his bed. Before ripping the paper from the object, Harry snatched the attached slip of parchment, which was penned in an elegant orange script. He read,

"The sincerest of Christmas greetings to Mr Harry Potter,

We extend our thanks for your assistance in advertising purposes earlier this year and we hope that you will accept this token of our appreciation.

Signed,

Mr Ludovic Bagman

Recently Elected Chairman of the Chudley Cannons Quidditch Association"

Ron raised his eyebrow in a questioning manner until he remembered that earlier in the Quidditch season, Harry had grudgingly agreed to bear the Chudley Cannons insignia on his Firebolt for the duration of a few games. Ron had been more than a little peeved that Harry and not him had been recognised by (in Ron's opinion) the greatest team of all time.

But any irritation was erased from his mind as he watched Harry unwrap...first a tail of totally symmetrical twigs (individually polished), then the base of an almost blindingly gleaming black handle, and then the icing on the cake appeared: the golden hand-etched label that read 'Firebolt: Series II'.

Harry sat back on his heels, stunned. Ron's mouth opened and shut, rather like a goldfish. Then Harry seemed to come to his senses and he picked up the broomstick reverently. Something akin to regret flashed over his face, but only for a moment. He handed it to Ron, who stared up at him stupidly.

"Take it," Harry urged. "It's yours. Merry Christmas."

Ron feebly tried to push it away and he spluttered something like, "No, can't, yours, thanks, no..."

Harry picked up is wand and pointed it threateningly at Ron.

"Listen. A great Quidditch captain needs a great broom. Just take the bloody thing before I change my mind. I don't want to have to hex you on Christmas Day."

Ron gaped at Harry, then his face broke into a wide grin. He reached over and ruffled Harry's hair. "Thanks a lot mate, I owe you one. Mind you, don't expect repayment for the next hundred years!"

Laughing, they finished unwrapping the rest of their presents. Gathering the miscellaneous objects and light-heartedly arguing about whose 'Weasley jumper' was the ugliest, they raced down the stairs to the common room, where they almost collided with Hermione. Shouts of "Merry Christmas!" and shrieks of laughter as Harry swept Hermione off her feet and swung her around echoed through the Gryffindor tower.

They had little reason to laugh after that joyful day. The day after Christmas, Dumbledore summoned the three of them, and the small number of the Order that had remained at Hogwarts for Christmas, to his office and informed them all with great regret that Voldemort was on the warpath. Everyone in the room knew immediately what that meant. They would continue to train hard, but more intensely, with a greater sense of urgency: soon, there would be battle, and they would all have to fight.

Just a month later, Dumbledore assembled them all again in the Great Hall. He announced that Voldemort had transferred his hordes of Death Eaters to a field in the Scottish lowlands, and if they were allowed to progress much further, Hogsmeade would be endangered. There were a few gasps, but as Dumbledore looked down on his Order, he saw a sea of determined faces and an immense sense of pride flooded through him. However, with the pride came a tinge of shame that, through loyalty to him, these young people were prepared to die, and undeniably, some would.

Albus Dumbledore pushed his emotions aside. Countless years of experience and leadership showed in every line of his face as he Apparated his students and soldiers to the field. Ron recalled the first in a series of battles clearly. There were numerous losses to both sides. All the students and teachers in Hogwarts mourned the loss of Professor McGonagall, Padma Patil, Justin Finch-Fletchy and Blaise Zabini (one of the very few Slytherins in the Order).

Terry Boot lost his wand arm and Ginny Weasley was blinded in her right eye. It still brought a lump to Ron's throat when he thought of his brave baby sister, who was a student of high achievement, struggling to read and write for weeks after the battle. However, they all had to pick themselves up and continue their lives and their training as best they could. The world depended on them, whether it knew it or not.

A tap on the shoulder startled Ron out of his troubled reverie.

"Ron, you okay? Just had to let you know that Madam Hooch wants to see you," Lavender Brown said quietly before skimming away on her old Cleansweep.

Ron took a couple of deep breaths and scrubbed at his eyes with the edge of his Quidditch robes. He landed a little roughly on the turf of the Quidditch pitch and slowly made his way back to the castle.

*


	3. To Avenge My Mother

"Mr Malfoy, may I ask what you are doing in my classroom? Aren't you supposed to be in Herbology, if my memory serves me correctly?"

Draco jumped, surprised by his Head of House.

"Sorry, Professor Snape. I, er, didn't think, I mean I didn't see..." He trailed off, meeting the Potions master's imperial, questioning gaze. Quickly composing himself, Draco explained himself in a more typical Malfoy manner.

"Professor Sprout will excuse me, sir. I was actually wondering if you could spare me a moment."

In answer, Snape turned to his class of third years.

"Continue to add rat sinews to your Sleeping Serums; we will test them upon my return, so make sure they become electric blue in colour. Otherwise, you will sleep..." (he paused dangerously) "...for a very, very long time."

Snape and Draco strode in silence to Snape's office, a small dark room, the shelves filled with jars of grotesquely mutilated creatures immersed in suspicious-looking fluids. His black cloak swirling behind him, Snape seated himself behind his desk and gestured at a dusty chair.

"Take a seat."

Draco sat rather tensely in the chair. "Thank you, Professor."

Snape tapped his fingers on his desk.

"Well, Mr Malfoy?"

"Ah, yes sir. Potter."

"And what about Mr Potter?" Snape's voice had an edge of irritation to it.

"He's been acting rather...strangely lately, Professor. I was wondering if your remark about the gamekeeper was entirely...wise."

Snape's eyes hardened. "Your concern for Potter is decidedly uncharacteristic, Mr Malfoy. Rather disappointing, in fact. I think that he is realising that fame cannot constantly swaddle him from the Dark Lord. He also needs to learn to control that nasty temper of his."

Draco's voice rose slightly from aggravation. "Professor, you have not answered my question."

"Oh, I do apologise, Mr Malfoy. You see, Potter cannot afford to lose his mind now, over the death of a mere gamekeeper. He has seen a great deal of death and destruction in his lifetime, I assumed a little more wouldn't make a difference. I see in hindsight that I was very wrong. If Potter cannot learn to accept Death, even that of his closest friends, then the Headmaster is wrong to place such great responsibility of the Order on him," Snape sneered.

"And as for you, there is absolutely no reason to treat Potter any differently. We certainly cannot afford for you to become as weak as a Flobberworm. Potter is not a child and therefore has no reason to take shelter behind your robes."

Normally pale cheeks flushed with anger, Draco opened his mouth to retaliate.

"The discussion is closed, Mr Malfoy. Good afternoon."

Snape swept past Draco and strode down the hallway, heels clicking on the stone floor.

Draco sat still in the dusty beechwood chair, fighting to control his rising fury. Ever since he had been selected to join the Order, he had been envious of Potter. Potter had everything; power, talent, love, real friends. He laughed at himself a little. _Ha, a Malfoy, jealous of anyone else? What would Father have to say to that? _Then his eyes turned to twin chips of flint. _But Merlin help me, I'll never find out._

The night Lucius had left the Malfoy mansion, three months ago, Draco swore that he would kill his father, even if it cost him his own life. He could have tolerated the beatings and the curses, but he would not tolerate his father's use of the Unforgivable curse on his mother. On the last night, when the Dark Mark burned black, Lucius had taken Narcissa and Draco with him to the gathering of Death Eaters. Draco had gone willingly, his promised initiation was to be that night.

They stood in a circle around their beloved Lord, who glided up to the Malfoy family. His crazed red eyes skimmed over the faces of Draco and Narcissa, and he gave a brief nod as he met the eyes of Lucius. Lucius bowed, then turned to his wife and yelled,

"Imperio!"

Draco, frozen to the spot, watched in muted horror as little by little, Death Eater by Death Eater, every last shred of his mother's dignity was stripped away from her.

When it was over, Narcissa lay in the middle of the circle; the only sound in the intense night was Lucius's laughter. He laughed harshly as he removed his wand from his robes, and pointed it at his wife.

"No, Mother!" Draco shouted as he tore himself from the ranks. He ran to his mother and held her close as he gazed defiantly at his father.

"You're a fool, boy. A weak fool," growled Lucius. "A disgrace to the name Malfoy. And for that, you will DIE!"

When the blinding flash of poison green light had disappeared, there was...nothing.

A thousand miles away, Albus Dumbledore was awakened from his sleeping quarters by the near-hysterical shouts of Madam Pomfrey, and they rushed to attend to a pale, slender, stony-faced young man and his unconscious mother, who had Apparated into the hospital wing just a few minutes earlier.

Draco shook himself. Since that night, he had distanced himself considerably from his admirers and followers in Slytherin; he wanted nothing more to do with the Dark Side. It was hard to escape though, he often felt his wand hand itching to curse Potter with one of the more 'immoral' incantations his father had taught him. He felt these urges more powerfully recently than at any other time. Especially when he saw Hermione.

It wasn't Potter that he was concerned about, but Hermione. _When did I stop referring to her as 'Granger' or 'that Mudblood'?_ he asked himself. Rather than inspiring a sneer every time he glimpsed it, the sight of her face (which had become considerably more attractive in the past two years since she had shrunk her teeth) now tore at Draco's heart. He had watched her carefully over the past few months.

He saw the changes that no-one else seemed to notice: the weight loss, the reluctance to answer so many questions in class, the darting eyes of a trapped bird, but most significantly, the way she flinched when Potter touched her. Draco knew Potter hurt her, and he would do anything to make it stop. Anything, even trying to convince Professor Snape to be civil to the 'celebrity'.

*


	4. The Wire Tightens

"Ah, Weasley, glad you finally turned up," Madam Hooch greeted Ron in her sharp efficient voice.

Ron felt very strange walking into her office, as he had vivid memories of confronting Professor McGonagall in the same room. Madam Hooch had been appointed as the new Head of Gryffindor when McGonagall was killed.

As a result, the walls, which had once been covered with intricate diagrams detailing dangerous transformations, were now covered with British Quidditch posters and black-and-white photographs featuring a grinning young witch on her father's lap (on a broomstick), on a toy broomstick, on her first racing broom, flying in a Hogwarts match, and with her Welsh team mates in the World Cup.

The shelves that had once been filled with neatly organised rows of thick books were now overflowing with haphazardly arranged trophies and flying paraphernalia, as well as a couple of manuals with such titles as "How to Perfect Wronski Feints and Other Tricky Manoeuvres".

"You wanted to see me, Madam Hooch?"

"Yes Weasley, obviously. Have a seat. Oh, don't worry about those papers on the chair, just put them on he ground."

Ron shifted a pile of hastily written documents onto the floor beside him and settled into the chair.

"Now then." Madam Hooch's voice became a little less sharp. "Look, Weasley. I've noticed that you've been, well, pushing yourself pretty hard lately. Throwing yourself into training the team, just living and breathing Quidditch. Not that it's such a bad thing, mind you, goodness knows you're a fantastic captain, but...well, you're not giving yourself time for anything else."

Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "That's not quite-"

"Don't try to argue, Weasley. You know I'm right. You're not even getting any sleep!"

The colour in Ron's face deepened and he stood up quickly. "Madam Hooch, I know you're just trying to help, but don't pretend you know what I'm going through!"

Hooch was totally unfazed. "Sit down."

He did.

"You're right. I don't know what you're going through. But I see you, and Potter, and Granger, and I know that Hagrid's death was the thing that finally divided the three of you. I know that you're scared for Potter and Granger but you don't know how to help them. All you can do for now, Weasley, is keep an eye on Potter. He was your best mate once, and deep down he still is, believe it or not. Look after him, and look after yourself."

Ron looked at the woman. Her sharp amber eyes gazed straight back at him. He looked away for a few moments and swallowed hard.

"Yes Madam Hooch."

*

Three days later, Harry sat in the darkened rear corner of the Potions room. The lesson passed in a dull, almost slow-motion blur, frequently punctuated by Ron's concerned expressions, Snape's cynical comments and Hermione's anxious glances.

_What the hell__ do they think is wrong with me? Always wrapping me up in bloody cottonwool, anyone would think I was still a baby. Why can't they leave me alone for a change? For Merlin's sake, I'm fine!_

Harry glowered at his friends across the room.

"Mr Potter, are you now so renowned that you no longer have to conform to the same regulations as your classmates? Your O.W.L.s will not write themselves."

"Waste your time on someone who cares, you greasy..."

"What was that, Mr Potter? If you have something to say, surely the rest of the class would be fascinated to hear it."

Harry inconspicuously bit back an aggressive reply.

"Professor Snape, I was just observing that there are others who would much rather make use of your considerable teaching talents, which shouldn't be wasted on such undeserving students as myself," he sneered.

In a deadly quiet, threatening tone, Snape replied, "Twenty points from Gryffindor for your insufferable cheek. Finish skinning your Mandrake shoots before I give you a week's worth of detention."

They glared into each other's eyes for what seemed like infinity. Finally Snape turned away. Harry glared at his back, absolute hate radiating from his vivid green eyes. If Snape was unnerved at all, he didn't show it.

Suddenly, a movement to Harry's right distracted him. Furious, he watched in silence as Draco leaned over Hermione's shoulder. Draco gently tilted Hermione's chin towards him and recoiled slightly as he saw the patch of bluish-black that had blossomed over her jaw line. He lightly stoked her face and looked deep into her eyes. Hermione blushed softly but turned her head away. Discouraged, Draco went back to his seat.

No one dared speak to Harry for the remainder of the lesson. He sat, every muscle taut, face like a thundercloud, teeth gritted, eyes like fire and ice combined. Several times out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Hermione looking at him in a faintly panicky way. _Lying_ _slut, she'll get what's coming_ _to her._

Everyone was glad to escape the tension filled room when Snape dismissed them and marched out of the room. With painstaking deliberation, Harry packed his books and ingredients. Hermione and Ron edged nervously over to him.

"Um...are you coming?" Ron asked.

Without looking up, Harry replied evenly, "You two go on without me. I'll catch up to you later."

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other.

Harry sensed this and turned his eyes towards them. He smiled crookedly.

"I won't be long, okay? I'm fine, I don't need escorts all the time."

A little doubtfully, Hermione and Ron made their way out of the Potions room, glancing over their shoulders at Harry.

*

Hermione and Ron walked together down the hallway in complete silence, as they were inclined to do lately. However, all the years of friendship had bred within them an uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking. Not quite surprisingly, they were both thinking the same thing, _Should we really have left Harry alone?_

They were just about to follow the other Gryffindors up the stairs and out of the dungeons, when Hermione stopped.

Ron instantly read the fear on her face as a cold band of terror squeezed her heart.

"Harry."

Ron nodded urgently. "I'll get Dumbledore!"

Hermione dropped her books, spun around and sprinted desperately back down the hallway.

*

Just to let any of my more loyal readers know, I'm not going to be able to update for a while since I am leaving on an exchange to Italy tomorrow.  Wish me luck and enjoy the holidays…


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